magistrate was completely serious.
‘There’s always a conspiracy. Everything that happens in society at a certain level is part of a conspiracy.’
Zen noted the evasive reply.
‘If everything is, nothing is. If we’re all conspirators then there’s no conspiracy.’
‘On the contrary, the condition of this conspiracy is that we’re all part of it,’ Bartocci retorted. ‘It’s a ratking.’
‘A what?’
‘A ratking. Do you know what that is?’
Zen shrugged.
‘The king rat, I suppose. The dominant animal in the pack.’
‘That’s what everyone thinks. But it’s not. A ratking is something that happens when too many rats live in too small a space under too much pressure. Their tails become entwined and the more they strain and stretch to free themselves the tighter grows the knot binding them, until at last it becomes a solid mass of embedded tissue. And the creature thus formed, as many as thirty rats tied together by the tail, is called a ratking. You wouldn’t expect such a living contradiction to survive, would you? That’s the most amazing thing of all. Most of the ratkings they find, in the plaster of old houses or beneath the floorboards of a barn, are healthy and flourishing. Evidently the creatures have evolved some way of coming to terms with their situation. That’s not to say they like it, of course! In fact the reason they’re discovered is because of their diabolical squealing. Not much fun, being chained to each other for life. How much sweeter it would be to run free! Nevertheless, they do survive, somehow. The wonders of nature, eh?’
He paused for a moment, to let Zen’s exasperation mature.
‘Now a lot of people believe that somewhere in the wainscotting of this country the king of all the rats is hiding,’ he finally went on. ‘The toughest brute of all, the most vicious and ruthless, the dominant animal in the pack, as you put it. Some thought it was Calvi, some thought it Was Gelli. Others believe that it is someone else again, someone above and beyond either of them, a big name in the government perhaps, or on the contrary someone you’ve never even heard of. But the one thing they all agree is that he exists, this super-rat. It’s a message of hope and of despair. Hope, because perhaps one fine day we’ll finally trap him, run him down, finish him off and rid the house of rats for ever. Despair, because we know he’s too shrewd and powerful and cunning ever to be trapped. But in fact that’s all just a fairy story! What we’re dealing with is not a creature but a condition, the condition of being crucified to your fellows, squealing madly, biting, spitting, lashing out, yet somehow surviving, somehow even vilely flourishing! That’s what makes the conspiracy so formidable. There’s no need for agendas or strategies, for lists of members or passwords or secret codes. The ratking is self-regulating. It responds automatically and effectively to any threat. Each rat defends the interests of the others. The strength of each is the strength of all.’
‘I don’t quite see what all this has to do with the present case,’ Zen said.
Bartocci glanced at his watch.
‘I’m sorry, I got rather carried away. But the fact remains that whether or not there is a conspiracy in progress in the Miletti case, I believe that the investigation has reached a point where I can no longer continue to ignore such a theory. However, it would be fatal for me to announce my intentions. If I were to conduct this investigation like any other the political repercussions would ensure that the truth never came to light.’
‘Which is where I come in.’
The magistrate looked at him, the strange stalled smile straining away at the corner of his mouth.
‘If you are prepared to help.’
Zen turned round, taking a deep breath. One of the first-floor windows of the houses giving on to the piazza was a painted dummy, but at the one next to it a portly, silver-haired man in a red dressing-gown stood staring down at them with undisguised curiosity.
‘What do you want me to do?’ Zen asked tonelessly.
‘Just a few things that would be difficult for me to do without causing comment. First of all I’d like you to check what firearms are registered to members of the Miletti family. Don’t forget to include the Santuccis. I also want you to make discreet inquiries as to the whereabouts of members of the family yesterday.’
‘I can tell you where they were yesterday evening. They were having dinner with me at Antonio Crepi’s.’
Bartocci gave him a look that modulated rapidly from astonishment through alarm and respect to suspicion. Then he laughed rather aggressively.
‘Well, well! You do get around, don’t you?’
‘Apparently Crepi wanted me to meet the Milettis. To “see what we’re up against” as he put it.’
At the other end of the piazza a young couple were hungrily necking, bent over a parked car. The fat man at the window was still looking on, his thumbs tucked under the belt of his dressing-gown.
‘Did he say anything else?’
‘Yes, quite a lot. In fact to some extent it seemed to tally with what you’ve been saying. Not that he suggested that the family had any complicity in the kidnapping…’
‘Of course not! Anyway, he wouldn’t know.’
‘But he feels they’re not doing enough to bring Ruggiero home. He asked me to make that plain to the press in an attempt to pressure the Milettis to pay up.’
The young magistrate smiled sourly.
‘Typical. Anyway, one thing is certain. No additional pressure will be necessary now. Valesio’s death will do more than any press conference to resolve this issue one way or the other. Within the next few days I expect the family to say that they’ve received a demand for the full amount of the ransom to be paid at once and that they are going to comply. That’s why we need to move fast. Once that money is handed over and Ruggiero is back we’ll never be able to prove anything. But we must be discreet, above all! This entire matter is politically sensitive in the very highest degree, and if any word of it leaks out I shall be forced to…’
He broke off suddenly, looking past Zen. The young man had produced a camera and was taking photographs of his girlfriend posed in various positions against the landscape.
‘Anyway, I must go. No time for coffee, I’m afraid.’
As Bartocci hurried away the man with the camera came striding purposefully towards Zen, his girlfriend following more slowly behind.
‘Pardon me! Would you be as good enough to mind making of us two both a photograph?’
Foreign, thought Zen with relief. The young magistrate’s sudden haste had been unnecessary. One thing at least was certain: the bastards would never employ foreigners.
FOUR
That afternoon Aurelio Zen went boating.
After the shock of Valesio’s murder and his almost sleepless night, lunch with Luciano Bartocci had really been the last straw. One thing he could have done without was an ambitious young investigating magistrate with a strong political bias, a prefabricated conspiracy theory and an itch to get his name in the news. At Zen’s expense, needless to say, should anything go wrong.
Once upon a time magistrates had been dull, stolid figures, worthy but uninspiring, above all remote and anonymous. But the combination of television and terrorism had changed all that. A new breed of men had emerged from the vague grey ranks of the judiciary to stamp themselves on the nation’s consciousness: the glamorous investigating magistrates and Public Prosecutors who were to be seen on the news every evening leading the fight against political violence and organized crime. Now all their colleagues craved stardom too, and almost overnight the once faceless bureaucrats had blossomed out in trendy clothes and bushy beards, and an anonymous letter was enough to get them as excited as any schoolboy.
Since Bartocci had been at pains to emphasize that his comments were ‘off the record’, Zen could of course simply ignore them. But that would be rash. There were an infinite number of ways in which the investigating magistrate could compromise or embarrass a police officer, whereas having the judiciary on your side was an
